But my husband never smiled again. Overpowered by grief at the position in which he had placed his wife and children, he died six months later in his sleep; died simply of a broken heart.
He was followed on the same journey only a few weeks later by my father, who passed away quite as suddenly, with the ink still wet on the paper of an article he was writing for the Lancet. He never finished his article, neither had he altered an old will as he had intended.
Three shocks had thus each followed the other in quick succession without time to recover from one before the next came, and so in little more than half a brief year the once happy daughter, wife, and mother stood alone, stunned, reduced to comparative poverty, with children clinging to her skirts. The two breadwinners of the family had gone out almost together.
There was not time to think and mourn and let precious moments go by. Something must be done. There was I with about as much to live on as I used to spend on my dress.
Then my old dear friend came back to me.
“I admired your pride and your pluck six months ago,” he said, “when you had a husband beside you to fight for you. But now, my dear child, you are alone and you have the children to think of. I wish you to go to your bank and put that two thousand pounds to your credit; and, more than that, I wish to adopt you as my daughter.”
It was all so bewildering, so strange. I had known him all my life. He was one of my father’s oldest friends. His wife had always been charming to me and she had left me bits of jewellery when she died; but again I had to refuse. He had relations. I could not claim that privilege. Still he persisted.